Emily Dickinson wrote it best:
After great pain, a formal feeling comes-
The Nerves sit ceremonious, like Tombs-
The stiff Heart questions was it He, that bore,
And Yesterday, or Centuries before?
The Feet, mechanical, go round-
Of Ground, or Air, or Ought-
A wooden way
Regardless grown,
A Quartz contentment, like a stone-
This is the Hour of Lead-
Remembered, if outlived,
As Freezing persons, recollect the Snow-
First-Chill-then Stupor-then the letting go-

A man enters an apartment or home. There is an old chair in front of a bookcase. The man walks up to a table with a bottle of booze, glasses, and a bucket of ice. He puts some ice in a glass and pours himself a drink. He walks over to a stereo and turns it on. He puts on headphones and sits down in the chair. He takes a drink, leans back in the chair, and closes his eyes.

A woman stands in a kitchen. She looks like a heroine addict. She leans over a sink. Her eyes are closed and her face shows emotional pain. She reaches into a drawer and pulls out a bottle of pills. She removes one and looks out of the kitchen towards the next room, where the man sits in the chair. She walks towards him.